No sun or stars; only the waves, the wind and the forgotten
beginnings

and pits from rotten fruit.

The smell, heavy and grating

as only industrial sound in recent memory

is dropped like a piano from above.

The rocket is my only inheritance,

my only table on which to create any broad stroke and
lasting impression-

this fear is Olympic-sized and as deep as a well-

an extended stay, a frequent flyer,

posi-traction for the paralytic soul.

So now, as you’ve
already disposed of the label and wrapper and receipt,

we wait for the darkened show to begin.

It's sort of an perturbed feeling;low-down and resonant, like the rumble of low-flying B-52s....Only much deeper.An emotion raised in water and brought down from high snow-it's still good, walks long and far and remains deeply aligned toward the future, but perhaps not-because food for thought isn't always food for the soul, and vice versa.